


Raised Void

by vaultbug



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Friendships, Gen, OHANA MEANS FAMILY, Sibling Bonding, im not going to tag all these characters bc ill die, whereas Hollownest accidentally raises a hellion god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultbug/pseuds/vaultbug
Summary: It is said a vessel of the Heart learns personality from the dead Kingdom it feeds on. That every vessel is different, despite the name of Grimm they all share. The interactions with the individuals inside the Kingdom forge and shape the grimmchild, their first family where the Troupe could not be.The grimmchild of Hallownest meets many role-models in this dying Kingdom. Grimm thinks; this child will be different.---("Do not teach them to splash water at me," Hornet grumbled at the Knight in her hand.)
Relationships: Grimmchild & The Knight (Hollow Knight), The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & Hornet & The Knight
Comments: 26
Kudos: 207





	1. A Love

The child was handed off to the one of void without a second glance. 

Not because Grimm was above attachments, but for the sake of tearing the attachment apart before it could fully root. In his hands the child squirmed and no sooner did the Knight’s hands were wrapped around it he let go, fingers tingling at the sensation of feeling his child, _his child_. The child felt him withdraw anyways, and in their sleep they cried out restless. Sobs filled the air.

Brumm made no noise at his side. His musician must have learned silence from past Troupe Masters, previous titleholders for he did not even offer comfort to Grimm. What was there to grieve? The Ritual was beginning anew. A momentous occasion.

(lies)

“You must feed the flames,” he remarked again to the Knight. The child’s cries were grating, but not on his nerves. Rather they ripped through his veins and pierced him in a place that would not recover. Something primal growled at him to dart forth, take the child back and care for it, _damn the Ritual damn the Heart_ \-- but the memories of his previous predecessors had warned him about those urges and so he stifled all his discomfort. “They will be scattered about this Kingdom. Such a pretty place in ruin. My flames will only make this corpse brighter.”

The Knight did not move to leave. Quietly they stood and as he looked away the child’s cries softened into a whisper, then a slumber. He spared a glance and found the Knight gently caressing the side of their horns, movements awkward but intent clear. The words ( _empty vessel, Kingkin, seal, seal, seal)_ echoed about his mind. A wonderful thing about nightmares was how they always seemed to contain the past -- and the ancient ones who festered in their discomfort had the loudest nightmares of all. Grimm had learned the history and regrets of Hallownest, stains of siblings in a forgotten pit even before their Troupe had opened shop.

The Knight continued petting his vessel. It was almost like concern.

(so perhaps not so empty)

“The nightmares lied about you,” he noted.

The Knight did not speak (could not, would not) but Grimm had the distinct feeling of being watched. He turned his head. Although that cold gaze held no sense of emotion he felt their analyzing glare as if it ripped through his chitin and found him worth _nothing_. He gazed back just as steadily, the Heart beating in his chest, and eventually the void looked down to the child nestled in their hands.

“Do you still have questions? Curious being, for something so empty.” That earned him a stare and he tilted his head in response. “You wonder of the dance, then? It is not difficult if you are capable enough.”

That was not right. The void looked away, then shifted the slumbering child to their other arm and raised a parchment with their other. They traced the edges of a label -- _Greenpath_ \-- and then pointed to the kid.

He did not understand. “You are free to take my child wherever,” he said slowly as they pointed again. “The flames will be elusive. It will be a requirement.”

From his side Brumm made a noise. Grimm turned to look to his fellow troupe member and saw the instrumentalist fidget. “They wish to know its name, Master,” he murmured.

Name? There were no names for children of the troupe. Just as there were no names for moths who did not follow the light or for spiders who failed at their silk. The Heart’s vessels did not always live past their first molt and thus, attachments were unnecessary. Besides. There were no other names for a vessel of the flame. Once the old vessel extinguished, the new one took its title and place. _Grimm_ had a history stretching farther than the history of this entire Kingdom.

Yet. He looked down at his child. _His_. Such a peculiar feeling, stirring at the edges of his carapace. A possessiveness, instinct from creating a child. Not even vessels were free from the burden of breeding. This individual feeling was terrifying as it was heartwarming and in it he found melancholy. He would never be able to raise this child. The Ritual had forbidden it. 

“The child has no name,” he told the void. The instinct seethed at his words and grew angry; he pushed it down and continued. “They are the child of Grimm. Nothing else is needed.”

The Knight absorbed that. Then, the hand holding the map retreated back inside their cloak and stayed there. They gave a brisk nod and with that, left.

The flap of the tent swished closed behind the Knight. It might as well have been the steel of a gate slamming shut. The attachment in his chest ripped raw, and he gritted himself together. “Brumm,” he said quietly and his instrumentalist looked up to him. “Is it always like this?”

Brumm knew he was talking about his predecessors. He shuffled. “Yes,” the musician said after a moment. “Yes it is, Master.”

Of course. “Ah,” he hummed delicately. “I should’ve anticipated that.”

Brumm exhaled. "You never do," his musician told him.

Grimm knew he was not talking about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think every vessel of the Heart had different personality ticks rather than all vessels being just a clone of Grimm, so the Troupe Master Grimm was always a constant but never the same. Brumm has seen many Troupe Masters come and go.


	2. Teething

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The child is introduced to Dirtmouth. Elderbug has a heartattack.

When he was younger and far more audacious, the Elder of Dirtmouth had gone on a few adventures of his own, yes. Not too far away from town -- even young bravado didn’t quell his timid nature -- but enough that he knew something most citizens of Dirtmouth did not. Back then the bridge’s ruins up to the cliffs overhead were more stable, making it easy for a young bug to pull himself up the sides to the tip of Hallownest itself. There he would stand just to feel the wind, the call of travelling out into the Wastelands beyond. Terrifying, it would sing him to a lull; and then, only when the night had settled would the Elder return to town, unsettled and _alive_.

Not that he ever followed that urge to leave, mind you. Elderbug was far too timid to try such a daring move as abandoning Dirtmouth for strange lands and stranger bugs. He was no warrior. But he kept that little flame of desire lit inside him anyways, for wishful thought and lonely nights. That precious little dream he held close to him for many years and made no comment on it, in fear it would slip away. Sometimes things best treasured were things left unsaid.

He never thought he'd feel that way ever again.

And yet.

Elderbug looked over to the lurking tents at the edge of his town, scarlet flame mixed with delighted laughter. Shifting fabric blew in an unsaid breeze, and unfamiliar dialect thrummed in the air, chanting feverish songs and shanties from far off lands. Alien the tunes warbled and alien he felt standing there at his lonely bench while an entire festival gathered at his borders. Oh, how he wished it not so! He preferred the quiet to this fervid circus, preferred the pale glow of Dirtmouth’s lamps to the troupe’s lanterns that gleamed from the corners of his eyes. Such bad luck he had for something so ugly to encroach his town. 

He could not ignore it though, no matter how hard he tried. With their song it brought back his dreams and he could almost feel the wind of the Howling Cliffs -- and that memory-shiver of adrenaline, half mixed with terror rose in his chest and stayed there like a beating drum. Those tents were a temptation, a vice of adventure. He found himself entertaining foolish thoughts of heading below like everyone else, just for a peek to see what the fuss was about. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was unbecoming of an old bug to suddenly envigorate himself with fantasies of journeying. Would he even make it down the chain? No. But it would be so freeing if he could, wouldn’t it? He would get away from the tents, the noise. He didn't even have to go down the well. Perhaps the graveyard. His friend had waited so long, after all.

(too long, you cowardly old _fool_ )

He glared out at the tents again. Blasted festival. If he was braver he would march into that camp and tell them to move farther from town, perhaps up into the cliffs where the ringing noise of that accordion wasn’t so loud. Like that little wanderer. Upon emerging from the well they beelined straight for those scarlet tents, only stopping to listen to him voice his distress before heading in. He hoped they would scare them off, but as they took longer to come back, that hope in him wilted away. 

He wondered if they were alright.

Ah, right. He was supposed to be ignoring the tents. He went back to his fixed gaze on the distant graveyard, trying his best to ignore a rather violent outburst of flame from a torch. (scarlet, dangerous) Whirring, his mind strained for other things to focus on rather than the beat of his anxiety and the tension of his shell. Think of other things. (like your friend; lonely, waiting) Anything. Anything at all.

 _Just a short walk,_ the thought nudged. _Just move. Move._

"Leave me be," he murmured aloud; then, blinked. 

Oh, he must be growing old.

* * *

In an hour (or so) the little wanderer came back through the path and sat down on the bench. He did not notice them at first, so enraptured he was in thoughts and arguments with himself that when he finally looked at them on the bench a gasp came from him and he swayed. “Oh, dear me, I’m sorry,” he apologized as the wanderer looked back, seeming just as startled. “My mind plays tricks and I did not see you. I hope I didn’t frighten you too much?”

The Knight shook their head slowly, then leaned back on the bench. Elderbug looked down and noticed something was off about them -- for one, they were scuffed, dirt plastered all over them. Secondly, they carried a bundle, one that was twitching under the lumaflies’ light.

Elderbug blinked. Surely it wasn’t moving. Then it twitched again and he looked to the Knight. “What are you holding?” He asked.

The Knight looked up from the bench and under the lamplight the gaze seemed almost sinister. For the briefest of moments the Elder feared that the masters of the tents had given the little wanderer some crude gift and now they were roaming around hauling the carcass of some unfortunate traveller; but then the bundle shifted again and his fear was dissipated. He moved closer and the Knight shifted on the bench to allow him greater access. Then, with a patience typically reserved for murderers and executors (or at least, in Elderbug’s mind) the little one pulled the edge of the blanket off to reveal --

\--- to reveal a grub swaddled in cloth, restlessly moving in their sleep. They were barely at the development stage to open their eyes. As he watched they squirmed again and opened their mouth, revealing one singular jagged canine amongst rows of barbed teeth.

A tooth. Elderbug had only seen one bug’s birth in the entirety of his lifespan and he still disliked the memory of slimy worms in a splintered shell. But from his discomfort he remembered that newborn grubs had one singular large tooth amongst smaller canines grown specifically to rip through their shells instead of using their carapace and risking damage to themselves. Was this child then just recently hatched? Was that the deal with the tents and scarlet lights? Elderbug found he had a million questions but they all slipped away as he glanced down at the tiny grub.

“You have a child,” was what he managed to say.

The little wanderer cocked their head to the side, as if not comprehending. Then it seemed to dawn on them that Elderbug was indeed speaking of the grub wrapped in their arms. Before he was able to say _no stop that_ they had the grub brandished in his face like a club.

Elderbug was ashamed to say he flinched. He fumbled for dignity. “Yes, I see it,” he spluttered half-heartedly and made to push the bundle back down. “But why do you have a nestling?”

The little one cocked their head again and seemed to shrug before looking past him to the tents beyond. So he was right then. Who would give the small wanderer such a large burden though? Some freshly hatched grubs needed the one who hosted them if he was not mistaken. He shuddered to think of strange bugs that would be so willing to throw away their children as soon as they hatched. 

That was a thought for another time though. There were much more serious things at stake here. Elderbug looked at how the little wanderer was carrying the grub and thought; _oh, boy_. “Do you know how to care for it?” He asked slowly.

This got a look; steady, inquisitive. Then the little knight hopped off the bench and closer to him, holding out the child as if they wanted him to take it. Elderbug felt the pit of his stomach drop. “Oh, dear,” he murmured and half of him wanted to take the kid right back to the tents to drop it off with its respective parents. However, that might lead to conflict and even with the little wanderer at his side, he had a feeling this circus’ ire would be malicious. “I’m sorry little one, but even my knowledge of grubs is limited to what I’ve seen come and go. Perhaps -- Iselda?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the Knight perked up and -- _threw,_ Elderbug's mind provided as he caught the child in his hands like a _ball_ \-- threw the child at him. He made some noise of protest, like a "Hmmm!" but by that time the Knight had already ducked away to the doorway of Iselda's shop and slipped in. The ring of the bell signalled his now lonely perch in Dirtmouth yet again; though this time he was alone with this horrid little thing nestled in his hands. 

Elderbug suddenly felt a terrible urge to sit down.

But there was some good out of this mess -- now he could see it closer. Indeed it was a newborn, thankfully cleaned from whatever liquids had emerged from its egg; and warm, so warm that the heat radiating off its body seemed almost artificial. Even though it had been jostled by his abrupt catch it still slumbered and two tiny claws reached out to snag the blanket closer. Elderbug found himself rearranging the bundle around it subconsciously. Ah, no matter how frantic his heart beat or how his hands trembled, paternal instinct was still instinct and forced his hand. 

He waddled closer to the bench and gently, as not to wake them, hoisted himself on its berth. The grub gurgled and nestled into his arms.

(warm, so _warm_ )

It was then that Iselda emerged from her shop, tugged out by the little wanderer. "What is this about?" She asked to the air and the Knight pointed -- then her eyes fell down onto the slumbering grub, Elderbug's discomfort and she stiffened, wide-eyed. "Oh," she breathed and said no more.

Elderbug took it upon himself to explain. "It came from the tents," he said and held up the grub to Iselda's hands. She took it, more carefully than he had, and as he watched she began to rub the tip of its head. The grub's squirming settled gradually. "I don't," and he looked at the Knight, who now looked as lost as he was, "Well, we don't--"

"Ah, I'm afraid I'm not much better," Iselda said, though her tone was longing. Without a word she transferred the baby back to the Knight's hands and showed them gently where to rub at its horns. "What I know is half memories and sparse words taught by my midwife." She laughed softly as the grub turned into her palm and nestled her too. "Ah, but this one's quite a welcome sight."

Elderbug wondered why she yearned for such a little bug. Though, it would be rude to ask about Cornifer and her relationship and besides, Elderbug had seen the wicked nail that she carried when she entered this town. Motherly was not a word to describe Iselda, not now. Perhaps then even primal, base instinct settled in the most detached of bugs. "A shame," was what he said instead. 

She shrugged. "Does it still have its tooth?" She asked.

"Yes."

Iselda blinked. "Strange," she noted. "The midwife should have removed that by now. Did she not?” She paused. “Or was there even a _midwife_ ,” she accused.

That was something he hadn’t considered. They both eyed the knight, who said not a word but continued petting the grub’s head with drawn-out innocence. Elderbug envied their stoicism. Analyzing was Iselda’s gaze but the knight did not even flinch against it. He knew he’d be quavering if Iselda ever set her eyes on him like that.

Finally, Iselda sighed and turned to him. “Well, it must come out.” She hummed. “But it will not be easy. Little grub’s tempers are fickle at most and I don’t want one of us to get --”

Something snapped.

“Hurt,” Iselda finished.

The Knight, of course, having heard only the first part of the sentence (what an _impulsive_ young one!) had the tooth in one of their hands, probably from yanking it directly out of the grub’s mouth. The other hand was currently trapped inside the grub’s mouth, many barbed teeth sunk deep into it. As Elderbug watched, mortified, the wanderer tilted their head and gave the grub a little shake. Envigored, the grub only sank their teeth in more and black droplets began to sprinkle on the ground.

He could not speak. Thankfully, Iselda made enough noise for the both of them by sighing so loud it seemed to split the air. “How deep do they have your arm?” She asked the Knight.

The Knight considered this for a moment; then shrugged. The hand inside the mouth shook the grub again and now the grub’s two claws swung out and sank into the arm of the Knight. More black dripped down, now a steady stream.

Elderbug’s mind chose this time to start panicking. “Are -- are they going to be okay?” He stuttered.

Iselda weighed this. Then she sighed again. “Well, my midwife lost two tips of her arms at first before she learned how to properly de-tooth a hungry grub,” she mused. 

“That’s not an answer,” Elderbug stammered.

“I don’t think you’d like to hear the answer.” 

The Knight, brave soul, kept their cool throughout this entire thing even though they were the one most likely in excruciating pain. With gentle demeanour they unsheathed their nail and poked at the grub with the hilt of it. The grub snarled -- more a _squeal,_ really -- and gnawed harder. They gave a voiceless sigh then, tilting their head in that distinct manner that Elderbug associated with questions, and made a chopping motion at their own hand.

Perhaps it was good he was sitting down as Elderbug suspected his legs would have given out if he wasn't. "Absolutely _not,_ " he managed as soon as the initial shock wore off.

Iselda was more welcoming of the Knight's suggestion. “Well, that could work,” she murmured, as if not at all disturbed by the prospect of the little wanderer cutting off their own hand. Elderbug had many questions about her childhood if this was the case. “It would make daily life difficult though.”

Was he to be the voice of reason here? “Do -- do not encourage them!” He stammered, just as the Knight eyed their own hand as if weighing the value of it. “Pray little one, do not cut it off! Surely the child will grow tired.”

"My midwife would beg to differ," Iselda noted. "It would certainly spare some pain from the little one biting it off slowly."

"Does it even have the ability to bite through?" Elderbug pleaded. "Surely it doesn't hurt that much."

That earned him a stern hand-waggle. The Knight eyed him maliciously and waved the grub as if to say, _gee, why don't you come here and we switch places, huh?_

Oops.

Before he was able to apologize -- potential dismemberment and nausea aside -- the third party of the town finally tired of their prattle. There came a sudden crack and the door to the left of him whistled out and slapped furiously against the side of the swindler’s house. With tremendous gusto, the small fly shopkeeper marched out and Elderbug wasn’t exaggerating when it seemed the very pavement trembled under his feet. 

“It is flukesakin’ _dawn_ ,” the fly barked into the town’s square. The shout echoed all the way down to the cliffs and back. “What, pray tell, is all this _fuss_ about?”

Silence. Even the grub stopped its chewing of the Knight's arm. Elderbug entertained that, for a second, the accordion floundered its tune. 

Iselda found her voice. “Ah, Sly,” she greeted. Her tone was oddly quiet, but laced with mirth. “Strange to see you out and about. Finally left your geo pile?

“And hello to you too," Sly snorted back to her, though there was still sharpness in his tone. Annoyance then, for being so rudely awakened. "How's your shop? Sold anything yet?" 

"I believe I asked you a question first."

"If you must know, I heard someone _bleating_ out here like a dying cicada and thought there was a murder going on." Elderbug found the pavement quite interesting all of a sudden. “You folk are quite loud for this early in the morning. I ought to charge you for disturbing the peace.”

Iselda waved him off. “And here I thought you were old and deaf," she shot.

“Hmph.” 

Elderbug let them bicker without a word in fear of interrupting some intricate greeting system between rival shopkeepers. He was embarrassed to admit that he actually hadn’t gotten Sly’s name yet to this point. They had not exchanged pleasantries past the fly buying the house many years back, mostly a quick hello and goodbye. To hear Iselda know him already by name and with enough exasperation was almost enough for Elderbug to duck into his shell in shame. 

“Though what is all this fuss?” The fly questioned eventually. He eyed them all -- and then upon seeing the wanderer with the grub attached to their arm, gave a huff that seemed to deflate his entire body another five millimetres smaller. “Of course it’s you,” he scoffed. “I see you’re still up to mischief even despite cleaning me completely out.” 

The Knight shrugged, then waved the grub attached to their arm again as if drawing Sly’s attention back to it. They raised their blade as if to chop off their hand again, but it was more a question directed at Sly rather than to go through with it. 

Sly understood. “Gracious no,” the fly laughed. “Beetles, maybe. But not small grubs like that.” This next sentence was directed straight towards the Knight, as if the fly had forgotten the rest of them were there. “I remember, with my pupils, we used to place bets on who could last longer in one of those lil’ monsters. Ah, the geo I used to win…”

“They’re bleeding,” Iselda reminded him.

“Oh, yes,” hummed the fly and then, faster than Elderbug’s eyes could track, the shopkeep darted up and flicked the grub in the center of the forehead. It flinched, gave a squeal; and as they all watched in horror it grew limp and flopped to the ground, unmoving.

No one spoke for a second. Then Elderbug squeaked, “You’ve killed it.”

Sly shouldered himself up to his full height with such heavy emphasis Elderbug feared he was about to get a Geo wad flung into his face. It was a shame that next to the leg of the bench, he looked as solid as a wilted plant. “Nonsense,” the fly huffed back. “Killin’ a grub by a lil’ poke? Hogwash.”

“It’s not moving,” Iselda remarked.

“Well then poke it a little. It’s being dramatic. Grubs do that.”

The Knight bent down and nudged at the grub with the blunt of their hilt. It blew a disgruntled bubble at them and flopped over on its other side. 

“Like I said. Not dead.” Sly waved a hand. “You’re welcome.”

Iselda’s eye-roll was nearly audible.

* * *

It was much later, after a few parting shots between Sly and Iselda -- _(_ Sly’s jab of _good luck on your shop,_ and Iselda’s sharp _of course, as same to you)_ that the town’s square settled back into semi-normalcy. In the distance the accordion had retired and now Elderbug greeted the silence like a lost lover, thrived with it. 

The little wanderer had not left yet. Still they sat wedged at the bench, having hoisted the grub to lie next to them on its framework. Their wounds had vanished and somehow even the pavement’s blood splatters were faded now, barely noticeable.

How curious. 

“You’ll be heading out soon, I imagine,” he said.

The Knight looked at him. With such an emotionless mask it was hard to distinguish what flickered across that face, if it was understanding or hostility. They plucked their map from their side and held it out to Elderbug. He looked to see the words _Kingdom’s Edge_ scrawled over its surface by the same familiar hand that wrote on all their maps. Iselda’s husband had been busy.

“Yes, but.” He glanced at the grub. The little wanderer’s gaze followed his. “The child is a newborn. Surely you do not intend to take it with you.”

The Knight regarded this and brought out their nail. A nasty lil’ thing it was now. Elderbug had seen it when it was chipped, but now it positively gleamed in the lumalight. They gave a few experimental flicks as if to demonstrate their technique, then patted the sleeping grub. _Safe,_ they seemed to affirm.

(more than safe, if the countless trips back and forth from the well had anything to say about it. They were still the only traveller to come back)

“Ah, no. I mean, it is a newborn.” How to put this politely. He tried hard to recall the words of a late mother years back, when she showed him her fifth child with weary eyes. “Newborns are...difficult things. I’m afraid until this one’s first molt, they will be very, _very_ lazy.”

The child yawned as if to reinforce Elderbug’s statement.

The Knight deflated, although the intensity of that empty gaze did not falter. They pointed to him now, as if he was the answer to their problems.

Elderbug averted his eyes. “Little one, I cannot care for it.” Nor would he want to. He had future visions already of nightmares where the grub would seize his own hands and bite them off. 

This time the wanderer slumped a little more back against the bench. Their gaze now fell onto the grub in hostility and Elderbug had a terrible thought of finding the child abandoned by his house late at night. His next words came quick. “I can offer some advice though,” he stammered. “Perhaps wait until that first molt. I can,” and his wild gaze fell on the abandoned houses of his town, “Offer you a house until they molt, free of charge."

(were the houses adequate? Was he saying the right things?)

"Yes, a house for them and you. By then they should be able to fend for themselves." He was rambling now. He snapped the rest of the words off before they could wriggle out.

The little wanderer digested his words, still eyeing the grub with a gaze that he couldn’t interpret as anything else but irritation. He awaited the response with dread, fingers wrung together. If they refused -- if they went down anyways, despite heading his warning -- he glanced at the slumbering grub and terror (another traveller, consumed by the pit _)_ rose in his carapace. Please, little one.

The lumalight flickered. The Knight nodded slowly; once, twice.

( _thank you, bless you_ )

Elderbug breathed out a shaky note. “Wonderful,” he said. 


End file.
